


the still of the night

by thchateaus



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Nomad Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-29 02:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thchateaus/pseuds/thchateaus
Summary: Bucky isn’t alone.OR: an alternative take on that nightmare scene.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 30
Kudos: 281





	the still of the night

**Author's Note:**

> firstly i don’t own these characters etc
> 
> second i don’t know what this is. i got sad over bucky and i missed steve hence this fic.
> 
> there’s a brief description at the start where bucky disassociates so pls be careful and quit if that bothers you! <3
> 
> (i haven’t edited this at all)

The Asset’s mission is clear.

Eliminate all in sight. Suits. Ear-pierces. A glock per suit.

It should’ve been easy. Was easy. The Asset neutralised each and every one.

A snap of a neck in his hand. Bodies smattering the staircase. Blood strewn across his uniform. He never saw it after missions, but it always appeared clean when he was awoken for the next one. Pristine.

He wasn’t counting on the man to be there.

His orders were clear on civilian casualties. Don’t be seen. Heard. Nobody will witness your existence. 

But then there was the man. 

Somewhere between the balcony and the last body, the Asset had gotten sloppy. Hadn’t checked the corners. For anything other than his targets.

It's the key scraping the lock that alerts him to the man. Their eyes meet, sweat high on the man’s brow as he pleads for freedom.

Hydra doesn’t allow freedom. Or witnesses.

The bullet is clean through his skull. The Asset stays long enough to ensure his pulse ends.

The man’s eyes. Open. Peering up at him. Still begging to be released.

It's the gunshot that rings in his ears when Bucky shoots up from the floor. 

Dog tags, his and Steve’s, stick to his chest. Scratchy blanket at his waist. Some sitcom rerun is on TV. His jacket’s strewn over the couch arm. The microwave hums.

Yeah. Dr. Raynor would be _real_ proud. Named five things. He hasn’t even stabbed or punched anything this time.

He pushes his hair out of his face with a trembling, sweaty palm. Fumbles for his phone nearby. 

1:30AM.

Jesus. 

He at least stands, forces himself to drink something and splash water on his face. Feel a little more like a human being.

It doesn’t quell the wracking of his chest. The ache of it is physical, it's real and it fucking _hurts_.

You’re James Buchanan Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. James Bucky Barnes.

You’re not what they made you.

Just whatever remnants of a person were left. 

The water feels like a weight in his chest as he swallows. Breathes in. Out. Swallow. In. Out. Try not to see those eyes staring up at him. In. Out. Ignore the ricochet in his ears. Repeat.

He’s still standing there when the key turns.

Doesn’t know how long it's been. Just holding that glass in his hand. Feeling it fracture. 

Steve’s heavy-set footsteps are a relief. He listens as he locks the door back up. Listens to them grow closer.

His skin itches.

Steve’s hand skirts his waist, his gloves are still on, and he can’t imagine how terrible Steve looks. But he’d forgone the bathroom altogether.

“Am I okay to…”

Bucky meets his own, blurry gaze in the microwave door. His head’s swimming. But Steve. Steve’s here and he’s warm and he’s whispering into the late night.

He drops the glass into the sink and pushes back into Steve’s chest. It smashes. It's the body sliding to the floor.

Steve hums, unspoken concern, and sags against him. Wraps his arms around him and takes his free hand. His lips find Bucky’s jaw in a gentle brush of a thing.

“I’m sorry I lost track of time with Maria,” He hooks his chin on Bucky’s shoulder. Coarse hair tickling his bare skin. 

“It's fine.”

“You’re not,” Steve presses his frown to Bucky’s shoulder instead. Kisses a group of many goosebumps he raises. “You wanna head back to the blankets?”

That sudden ripple of shame isn’t foreign. Far from it. He hadn’t thought Steve had seen them. Stupid. He thought Bucky was doing better but the couch had been too soft, too cold.

When he had slept, as the Asset, it’d been stolen minutes on a rooftop before his target moved. Overnight missions. They weren’t often. Pierce had never trusted him.

“C’mon, Buck, you’re freezing.”

Bucky lets himself be eased from the counter. Hadn’t even realised he’d been gripping it. Marble splinters as he releases.

“Sorry,” Bucky wipes his hand free of splinters on his briefs, spins in Steve’s arms. “Sorry. I had - it was bad. Tonight.”

“And you’re seeing Dr. Raynor tomorrow?” 

The pit in his chest. “Yeah.”

“Alright,” Steve smiles in that earnest way, and Bucky can’t help but replicate it. Or try to. “Good.”

He squints in the dark then, the hall light illuminating Steve’s face. His cheek is split, just slightly, the swell of it an angry purple. 

“Sweetheart,” He grazes Steve’s cheek with the pad of his thumb, watches his lashes flutter. Feels something other than numb. Smiles to himself. “Have you ever not gotten your ass kicked at work?”

Steve narrows his eyes, “This a trick question?”

“Concern.”

Steve doesn’t bring up the obvious here. The nutcase in his arms. 

Steve ducks his face instead, noses at his neck. Kisses lazily above his collar bone. “You my ma now?”

“Shut up,” Bucky’s chest is warm. He angles his head out of the way, grabs for Steve’s nomad uniform. “You stink.”

Steve snorts, vibrating against Bucky’s skin. Bucky’s nose scrunches. 

“Sorry,” He huffs. “Do you wanna go back to sleep?”

“Not really,” He probably should sleep. It's what Raynor would tell him to do.

“You wanna shower with me?”

“You comin’ onto me, Rogers?”

“You’d know if I was,” Steve’s lips quirk as he pulls back. “Thought it might… might help. I wanna take care of you. So.”

Bucky’s heart swells. Thaws him through. 

“Fine.”

Steve toys with their dog tags as the water heats, uniform already unzipped and thrown in a laundry pile in the hall. Lets Bucky pet him right back, fawning at the injuries that’ll be gone by tomorrow.

But they’re still there. And it bothers him. Bothers him more how nonchalant Steve is about them.

Steve pulling him into the cubicle is silent, save for the slip of feet on a single metre square _not_ designed for two people, least of all supersoldiers.

Steve makes quick work of washing out purple goo from his body behind him, pressing kisses upon Bucky’s back as he does. He’s only sure Steve’s done when hands smelling of artificial apples find his hair.

“Love you,” is murmured in the air between them, and he lets his eyes fall shut at blunt nails on his scalp. 

* * *

“What’s this?” 

Bucky opens his eyes to the source of the lazy, blue lighting that dances over the room. That sitcom’s still airing, the laugh track barely audible even to him. 

“All I know is it's some channel Yori recommended. Told me to keep an eye out for _classic_ _television_.”

“That’s sweet,” Steve dodges that elephant in the room too, hand resuming it's slow pace of Bucky’s naked back. 

Bucky hums with it, pressing into Steve’s side. His warmth, a contrast to the threadbare blankets below and above them. 

“How was Maria?”

“Tired,” Steve huffs a laugh. “You get through any of that book today?”

“A little. Watched the movie instead.”

Steve slides his hand to his shoulder blade where the vibranium meets skin. Dances fingertips along it as Bucky shudders. 

“Sorry,” He says, not sorry at all, “When’re you headed to therapy tomorrow?”

“Eleven, then Yori’s paying for lunch… Why?”

Steve smiles. “I’m making dinner.” 

“Oh, no, you’re _not,”_ Bucky twists against him and presses his lips to Steve’s. “That’s really sweet, baby, but I ain’t letting you.”

“That right?” Steve tilts his head up to catch Bucky’s mouth. Gets him groaning into it, agonizingly slow.

Bucky hums a response, dog tags dragging up Steve’s chest as he kisses him open. Kisses him ‘til Steve’s panting into it, always so passionate, his guy, and pulls back.

Steve makes a noise, more of a whine, digging his nails into his shoulder blade. 

“I’m cooking,” Bucky’s flesh hand traces along Steve’s stomach. Slips lower to skirt the bulge in his boxers with a slide of their lips and feels him shake. Buck up into it. “No arguments.”

“You make a compelling argument,” Steve grunts, flush, still fighting a laugh. 

“I know,” Bucky says, fighting his own. Unsuccessfully.

Steve pauses for a moment, finds his gaze. “I can’t believe I get this.”

“My hand on your dick?”

Steve narrows his eyes. “You. Life without the shield. Mostly you.”

“Me either,” Bucky presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. And another. “You gonna fuck me?”

Steve gives into his laughter, a racket of a thing, and Bucky hides his grin against his jaw.

“Get up here.” 

* * *

True to his word, after a couple hours free of nightmares, Bucky makes them dinner the following day. 

Well. Brings home a couple sushi trays courtesy of Leah after therapy. 

Semantics.

Turns out those black and white sitcoms of Yori’s are pretty great after all when Bucky’s paying attention.

**Author's Note:**

> twt is valyriaas


End file.
